Starting Over
by Stirling Phoenix
Summary: Napollya. Canon-compliant. "The cowboy's been let off his leash; Napoleon Solo no longer takes orders from the CIA. As far as the KGB's concerned, Solo's now a wildcard in their otherwise carefully stacked deck, and much like a ball in the hands of the competitor in any sport, the wildcard is only good when it's out of play."


Starting Over

Pairing: Napoleon Solo/Illya Kuryakin

Rating: PG-13 (T)

Written as a belated birthday gift for the highlight of my life, _**Eorendel**_.

* * *

"Kill the American."

Illya can't remember how many times he's heard that exact phrase from his superior officer, and yet, the order has never felt as absolute as it does at this very moment. Until now, there was always another mission where Solo would prove useful, meaning there was always a reason for Illya to evade orders without being accused of insolence, and more importantly, a reason for the KGB to let Solo live.

But now, now it's different. The cowboy's been let off his leash; Napoleon Solo no longer takes orders from the CIA. As far as the KGB's concerned, Solo's now a wildcard in their otherwise carefully stacked deck, and much like a ball in the hands of the competitor in any sport, the wildcard is only good when it's out of play.

As always, Illya stands in complete silence with a rigid posture as he listens to his superior give orders over the phone. By now, he is used to the gruff tone that one may liken to that of a dog's bark; he's used to taking and executing each and every instruction without so much as batting an eye at whatever might be requested of him.

Except of course, when it comes to Napoleon.

"Kuryakin?" His superior's voice is cold and domineering.

"Yes?" he replies, not exactly asking for what his superior wants, but rather, acknowledging that he's been heard.

"You have your orders."

That he does.

"Understood, sir." Illya responds with the same, resolute tone as he always does.

An abrupt static-like sound lets him know that he's been disconnected, and only then does Illya allow himself to gracelessly crumble to the ground.

His fists are clenched so tightly that it's only a matter of time before he'll feel the distinct pain of his nails digging into the flesh of his palms, effectively tearing the skin and drawing blood. His entire being is trembling so violently that any passerby would justifiably think that he was seizing, but he doesn't know how to control himself, nor will he be able to stop himself from preventing his rage from bursting forward in a more violent manner, potentially causing thousands of Pesetas' worth of property damage in its wake.

As he takes his fury out on whatever inanimate, yet undeniably expensive furnishings that are lying around his hotel room, Illya's mind begins to clear, and he starts to think about the possible repercussions of his potential actions. Illya knows the consequences of defiance, and the added shame he would bring the Kuryakin family for anything less than complete obedience. However, that omnipresent, almost extreme sense of disgrace that's been motivating him since childhood to become the KGB's best operative almost pales in comparison to the horror and disgust he would feel from taking Napoleon's life.

Refusing the KGB would not only bring him and his family more humiliation than he could ever imagine, but could very well cost him his own life as well. But on the other hand, killing Napoleon Solo, _his_ cowboy, might destroy him.

While standing in a now, thoroughly demolished room that was once worthy of a five-star rating, Illya comes to one indisputable conclusion: for the first time in his life, he is left uncertain of his next move, and no amount of training could ever prepare him for whatever might happen next.

* * *

Finding Napoleon isn't difficult; it never is really. As sly and elusive as Napoleon is known for being, he always seems to have a knack for being in plain sight whenever Illya wants to see him. This of course, is the obvious exception; Napoleon's only standing a mere five meters away, but Illya wishes what he was in another part of the country, or better yet, halfway across the globe. After all, he can't kill a man who cannot be found.

Napoleon smiles at him from across the street; it's one of those irresistibly charming smiles that makes Illya think that he's the only one Napoleon ever sees. He knows that's a lie, Napoleon gives that same charismatic grin to anyone he thinks he can get something out of. Even if he knows better, Illya still can't help but feel that something (only God knows what) is different about the smiles he gets from Napoleon.

On more than one occasion, Illya's caught himself dabbling in numerous hypotheticals when it comes to his relationship with Napoleon. After a lot of thought, not quite reluctantly so, he's come to believe that if the entire situation was different: if they didn't work for opposing organizations, if it were a different, more peaceful and accepting time, and if Napoleon wasn't such a goddamn womanizer, things might have taken a different turn.

Illya doesn't want to use sappy labels like 'love' or 'romance' to describe his ideal 'what if' scenario with Napoleon, but he can't deny that such words come awfully close to what he really feels.

His feet feel like they've become one with the cement as he tries to drag himself across the street and over to where Napoleon's standing, and after what seems like an eternity to him, Illya finds himself face-to-face with the man whose fate he still has not determined.

"Evening, Peril," Napoleon greets him in a voice that sounds as refined as ever, but this time, there seems to be a note of softness that Illya can't quite place.

Illya only nods in response, as his tongue feels like it might actually be glued to his mouth. His silence is nothing unusual though, and by now, Napoleon doesn't pay any mind to his lack of a greeting.

"Would you do me the honor accompanying me to the rooftop of our hotel?" The question itself isn't threatening in the least, but the tone Napoleon uses makes Illya feel as if his only option is to comply.

The thought of being truly alone with Napoleon right now terrifies him, and somehow, Napoleon must sense his uncertainty, because he quickly adds: "It's my last night in Madrid, and I was hoping to have one last moment with my dear partner before I depart."

It takes a ridiculous amount of willpower to keep himself from physically cringing at Napoleon's poor choice of words. Even though the thought that there might be an inkling of truth behind Napoleon's statement makes Illya sick to his stomach, he wordlessly follows Napoleon to the roof.

The surrounding air is as still as it can possibly be, yet it is far too chilly for a summer evening in central Spain. Having grown up in Russia, an abnormally cold summer's night shouldn't bother him in the least, but even so, Illya can't suppress the slight shiver that runs down his spine.

Napoleon however, either doesn't notice the cool temperature, or doesn't seem to mind it.

"It's such a lovely night out," Napoleon says offhandedly, filling a silence that has begun to suffocate Illya. "In this city light you never really get to see the stars."

"Where will you go now?" Illya suddenly asks, not caring that he's completely disregarding Napoleon's attempt at small-talk. He's never understood why Napoleon always attempts to engage in light-hearted conversation with him. It hasn't worked before, and it certainly isn't going to work now.

"Hmm?"

Illya cannot suppress an exasperated sigh from escaping his lips. "You no longer answer to Sanders, or anyone else for that matter. Where will you go after you leave here?"

Napoleon doesn't answer right away. His eyes simply look Illya up and down; they seem to settle on the revolver that's been carefully concealed within his jacket. Deep down, Illya knows that he's not he's capable of acting upon his superior officer's order, but the gun is something he's grown accustomed to having on his person at all times, regardless of need.

"I find that to be particularly odd question," Napoleon says, at last breaking the silence, with his eyes still carefully trained on the hidden weapon.

"Why is that?" Illya remains calm; he knows Napoleon's poker face all too well.

"I just didn't picture you to be the type of murderer that got some sort of kick out of knowing the plans they had ruined as a result of the kill." The statement is said matter-of-factly, and it strikes Illya to his very core.

"You don't know what you're talking about." He can hardly believe his own ears as those words tumble from his mouth.

"Don't I? Of what use am I to the KGB now that our partnership is done for?" Those are not real questions, nor does Illya treat them as such. There is nothing he has to say, but naturally his silence will not faze Napoleon.

"Do you honestly believe that you are the only one who's been ordered time and time again to kill your partner when he's out-lived his usefulness, or even when the opportunity presents itself, such as those times when he's gone as far as to actually turn his back on you, simly because he feels as if he can trust you?"

Of course Illya knows that Napoleon had also been ordered to take his life after the Vinciguerra case, but until now, he has not given a single thought to the idea that Napoleon might have been under the same sort of pressure that plagued him at every turn.

"Then why haven't you?" He already knows the answer, but for some reason he actually needs to hear Napoleon say it. "You've said it yourself; I've given you plenty of opportunities." The notion that he has indeed come to trust Napoleon with his life is left unsaid.

"Same reason as you, I would imagine," Napoleon says casually. "Nationality is irrelevant; killing a man you've worked with for half a decade, and somehow, even managed to grow a certain," he pauses, as if he needs a moment to choose the precise word, "fondness," Napoleon finally says before pausing for another second. From the look on his face, Illya can tell that Napoleon is still dissatisfied with his words, but he continues anyway, "for, just doesn't seem right."

"I can't do it, Cowboy." He can't bring himself utter anything more. Admitting such a thing makes him feel unbearably weak, but at the same, he can't bring himself to regret this particular decision, even if the consequences are dire.

"Nor can I, Peril."

There is no way he could possibly begin to explain how much those words mean to him.

"How do you propose we fix this?" Illya finds himself asking before he can stop to think of a plan himself.

"I'm glad you asked." The tone of Napoleon's voice takes on a more cheery tone, which automatically gives Illya a sense of reassurance that he so desperately needs. "I do believe I've come up with a solution that will suit both us, and any third parties involved rather nicely."

Upon declaring that he's come up with yet another brilliant plan to save the day, Napoleon starts to shift towards the ledge of rooftop. For a brief moment, he simply stands there; the tips of his Italian-leather shoes just barely hang over the edge as he watches the busy streets of Madrid nearly one-hundred meters below him. Napoleon doesn't say anything more, and to Illya, the resulting silence lasts for eons before his body finally acts on its own accord.

Before Illya can even begin to rationalize the situation in front of him, he finds himself lunging forward to pull Napoleon away from the edge of death. As with everything else, he uses much more force than he intends for, and inevitably, Napoleon is unable to prevent himself from crashing straight into Illya. The collision, while probably enough to topple over any other man, doesn't even shake Illya, much less deter the unsettling combination of sheer terror and anger that's slowly building within him.

"Are you out of your god-forsaken mind?" Illya thinks he might be shouting right now, but he can't bring himself to care. "This is your big plan?"

Not surprisingly, Napoleon is completely unfazed by Illya's sudden outburst. He simply pries himself away from the death grip that Illya hadn't even realized he had on Napoleon until just now, and dusts himself off, acting like nothing even happened.

"I'm glad to know you feel that way, Peril, but you might want to let me explain myself before you jump to any conclusions."

The smirk on Napoleon's face is beyond irritating, and Illya suddenly wants nothing more than to fiercely wipe that stupid grin off of his handsome face.

Oddly enough, the sound of Napoleon's voice seems to appease his growing fury, at least for the time being.

"You see the real reason I asked you up here, wasn't to exchange pleasantries or give any sort of subtle, yet touching confession," a soft grunt leaves Illya's throat, "but rather, because we're going to stage my death."

"You really have lost it."

"Quite the opposite, actually," Napoleon replies nonchalantly, and resumes his earlier position on the ledge, as if it's now some sort of podium. Still justifiably a bit wary, Illya carefully watches Napoleon as he retrieves a small object from his breast pocket.

"Recognize this?"

Of course he does; the mere sight fills him with an alarming sense of distrust, and automatically makes him stand on edge.

"A tracking device," Illya answers coldly. "American-made."

"Exactly," Napoleon nods in agreement. "I haven't been out of the CIA's employ for more forty-eight hours, and I've already found seven of these beauties on my belongings and my hotel-room furnishings."

"They're following you," he states, unable to stop himself from stating the obvious.

"I'm glad you're catching on, Peril," Napoleon replies with a mocking tone and a highly amused smirk plastered on his face.

Illya manages to make himself glare in Napoleon's direction, but there is no real malice behind the look. "You know longer work for them, but they never intended to set you free."

"Oh don't sound too upset." Napoleon gives him a careless shrug. "It could be worse."

"How so?"

"I could be trying to escape the KGB."

In a sense that's much too real for Illya's liking, Napoleon really is on the run from the KGB. He doesn't voice that, however, because he knows who the hunter is.

"Why do you want my help in this?" he asks. He's almost surprised that Napoleon still seems to trust him. If the tables were turned, Illya highly doubts that he'd ever ask his would-be murderer for any sort of assistance.

"Isn't it obvious?" The question is clearly rhetorical, but if Illya knows anything about Napoleon (which he does) he's going to get a thorough explanation anyway.

"If all goes according the plan, tonight Napoleon Solo will die at the hands of Illya Kuryakin, and both of our respective agencies will drop the issue entirely. Essentially," Napoleon clarifies, "your standing in the KGB will be secure, and I will be free."

"And then what?"

"You'll go back to your life as a diligent soldier for the KGB, and I'll start life anew," Napoleon says simply, as if that is the only correct response. "I was thinking of travelling to Scotland, and perhaps pursuing my childhood dream of proving the Loch Ness Monster's existence." He chuckles to himself for a second, obviously taking amusement in his own silly joke. "What do you think?"

About the Loch Ness, Illya truly has no opinion. As far as he's concerned, Napoleon can do anything he pleases once he has true freedom. Even so, he knows himself well enough to admit that he would regret this moment for the rest of his life if he doesn't say anything more.

"Napoleon?"

Napoleon's first name almost feels like a foreign language as it rolls off his tongue, but at the same time, despite the alien sensation it gives him, it feels perfectly natural, as if he was meant to refer to Napoleon in such a familiar manner all along.

The look in his eyes tells Illya that Napoleon had been caught off guard upon hearing his own name, but at the same time, Illya doesn't think he minds all that much.

"Illya?" he responds in a voice that's much softer, and dare he say, warmer, than Illya's ever heard before.

"Will I ever see you again?" Again, Illya's mind doesn't have time to process what he's saying before the question in its entirety passes through his lips, but this time, the lack of control doesn't bother him in the slightest. After all, this could be his last chance to say anything like this.

It's not a declaration of love in any sense of the definition, yet the pure smile that graces Napoleon's face makes it perfectly clear to Illya that Napoleon has seen right through his gruff and unrefined confession. At this moment, Illya is absolutely certain that that beautiful smile truly is meant for only him to see, and he can't stop himself from returning Napoleon's stunning grin with a goofy, overly-joyous one of his own.

"I may be starting over, but you'll be sorely mistaken if you really think you could ever get rid of me so easily."

Illya doesn't quite know how to respond, but of course, Napoleon doesn't need him to. Before he can process what's happening, he's being pulled up onto the ledge of the rooftop with a practiced grace that only Napoleon Solo's capable of, and given the single-most breath-taking kiss of his life.

He cannot deny that he has imagined what kissing Napoleon would feel like once or twice before, but this is more incredible than he could have ever imagined. Napoleon's lips are much softer than his own, and infinitely more experienced; he leads the kiss in such a way that forces Illya to feel every last ounce of emotion that has been so dutifully repressed over the past five years. There are no words to describe the magical sensation that engulfs Illya's entire being and threatens to drive him utterly insane, but he doesn't need an explanation. The only one he needs is Napoleon, and only Napoleon.

The connection between them was so intense, so spellbindingly powerful, that Illya doesn't realize that Napoleon has worked his thieving charms and stolen his revolver from inside his jacket until it's too late. Not a single trace of fear courses through his veins as Napoleon takes his hand, and wraps it around the gun so that Illya's index finger is comfortably placed on the trigger, with his own finger resting on top. Almost reluctantly so, Napoleon breaks their kiss, and looks at Illya with a mixture of emotions that Illya can't quite decipher.

"While I am certain that we're not being watched at the moment, I think we can both agree that simply reporting my death won't be enough," Napoleon explains before giving Illya another quick kiss. "What do you say, Peril, perhaps in my next life we could be something more than this?"

Another genuinely happy smile forms upon Illya's lips. "You'd better keep your word, Cowboy. Don't make me come after you."

"You can count on me."

Napoleon guides his and Illya's hands that have control of the gun up into the air, pointing directly at the sky. With one last promising glance, he pushes down on Illya's index finger, instantly causing the firearm to go off. The sound echoes throughout the air, but Illya can hardly hear it. His focus remains solely on Napoleon. With a heavy heart, he watches as Napoleon takes one step backwards and allows himself to fall away from the edge, and more importantly, from him.

A delayed sense of fear latches onto his soul, and claws at it mercilessly as he waits for the inevitability that is the sound of bone crushing against the pavement. It's far too dark for Illya to actually see anything, but he knows it has to be coming.

Except it never does.

He waits for what seems like hours, but he hears nothing: no startled screams of passersby, no police or ambulance sirens rushing to the scene, nothing. It's all quiet, and somehow, the silence lets Illya know that everything's going to be all right.

That knowledge alone gives Illya the strength he needs to walk away, and the courage to put his faith in Napoleon's promise.


End file.
